


Hopes and Truths

by campholmes



Category: RuPaul's Drag Race RPF
Genre: Lapdance, M/M, just porn. thats it., katyas new fake titties, maybe a little romance but ... hardly, trigger warning gender but like fun gender
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-03
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 17:23:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13253001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/campholmes/pseuds/campholmes
Summary: “Shut up!” She shrieks. He flattens his palm on her stomach and kisses her cheek, feels her skin warming under his lips. She crumples into him a bit, relaxes against his side. Her body, with all of it’s muscle and recent weight gain, can fall from all tension at nearly any moment she wishes it to. She climbs on top of him and suddenly she’s as loose as water, spilling across his lap and resting in every space of him available.





	Hopes and Truths

**Author's Note:**

> it's my birthday and i wanted to treat myself. You should treat yourself as well as you peruse Erykah Badu's discography and read this porno. Pay special attention to Back In The Day, the song that this fic derives it's title and a good chunk of dancing Katya inspiration from, and Danger, which was played on repeat for nearly all of the action. 
> 
> tumblr = @ourladybeatrice :)

“Trixie.”

Her hand is on his ass, squeezing as tightly as she can from the moment he enters the backstage area. They’re distinctly not alone, two local queens are laughing in the corner, watching something on a phone. He curses his dick for jumping when she squeezes harder, releases his cheek and then squeezes again. 

“Oops! My nail,” she giggles into his ear. Her perfume is especially strong tonight, and there’s a bead of sweat dripping down her temple, inching into view from under her thick blonde bangs. There’s a little smudge of red lipstick on her teeth, and he wants to swipe it off with his thumb. She bites her bottom lip as she grins and crouches to pick up the missing nail. She slips it into her bag, in the little pocket in the front. He knows that she’s going to forget it there, that she’ll have a new set on for tomorrow night’s show.

She lifts her bag with one arm but his hand goes in reflex to her cinched waist, the faux leather belt that curves her tiny sides even more, runs his fingers up to her wrist to wrench the strap out of her grip. He takes the bag, hauls it over his shoulder, fiercely ignores her smirk. Her lashes are bigger than usual, she’s dressed up nice for him, knowing he would be in the audience out of drag, only there to watch her, to be proud of her on the sidelines as she dirty dances for him. She loves it, and he’s grown to love it more and more as time has gone on, has enjoyed increasingly as he’s learned more about her and what she likes.

She often wants to be on her knees for him, sucking him off in a full face, loves to have her lipstick smearing across his body. He’s gotten used to it, and then craved it, and then could easily switch her pronouns in his head in the blink of an eye, solely depending on how she acts when she wakes up in the morning. 

Right now she’s on a kick, wearing her stupid _Atomic Blonde_ wig around the apartment, stretching across the bed wi handheld mirror, drawing on her lips over day-old stubble, kissing him on the cheek so that it leaves a mark that she then smears with quick fingers. She’s spent hours in the shower shaving her legs and thighs, coming out moisturized with expensive lotion he knows she rarely bothers with and insisting that he kiss her all over. He does it gladly, paying special attention to her hips, her armpits, so that she can’t breathe anymore, so that her thighs choke him as he finally gives her what she wants.

“Take me home, bay-by, take me home, fuck-me!” She sings as the door shuts behind them. She’s made up another stupid melody, and he’s an idiot for not featuring her on an album yet. He keeps promising himself to get on it. Everyone will hate it, ensuring that he loves it even more.

She squeezes his ass again, pushes him into the uber. She’s blatantly disregarding the weight of her costume bag, which nearly causes him to fall to the ground as her strong arms force him sideways. She slides into the middle seat, buckles up with her hand digging between their thighs, scratches at his knee the entire ride.

Her hair is tickling his neck as she looks back and forth out of both windows, her black and white patterned outfit swirling with the street lamps. He feels faintly nauseous, but then her nose is sharp against his cheek and she’s humming a little tune that he doesn’t know into his skin. He can feel her nose vibrating. Her bag is heavy on his thighs, and he sighs as she crawls fingers across his shoulders to stick his face nearly directly in her sweaty armpit. Her fake breasts squeak against each other, and she grins against his forehead.

“Trix-ieeeeee,” she whispers. He digs his fingers beneath her belt so she sniffs, brings his other hand up to her chest where he shamelessly squeezes her left breast. She squeals in sheer joy, and he laughs against her inner arm. He keeps his hand on her, pinches her little nipple through the sheer section of her bodysuit. “Oh!”

She’s watching his hand, and he knows from simply knowing her that she’s thrilled at how big it is, how it can hold her breast and nearly engulf it, when she’s purchased a decent size for her build, for her broad shoulders and tiny waist. 

He lifts his head a little so that his face is stuffed in her hair, and his lips are grazing her warm earlobe.

“I’m going to kiss you all over, right between your tits, I’m going squeeze them so tight and let you fuck me so they bounce in my face,” he whispers. She shivers, grips his knee tighter and pulls him in closer by the shoulder. 

“I want them bigger,” she pulls his head forward with her clawed hand so that she can smush her painted lips against his ear to say it quietly, giggles a little after as he runs his fingers right underneath her breasts, tickling her. “You think?”

“Why are you asking me, you can have whatever you want,” he says. The man driving them ignores everything transpiring in the back seat. Trixie cannot blame him.

“Shut up!” She shrieks. He flattens his palm on her stomach and kisses her cheek, feels her skin warming under his lips. She crumples into him a bit, relaxes against his side. Her body, with all of it’s muscle and recent weight gain, can fall from all tension at nearly any moment she wishes it to. She climbs on top of him and suddenly she’s as loose as water, spilling across his lap and resting in every space of him available. 

Right now her leg squeaks against the leather seat as she brings her thigh up against his. He sighs, drops his head on her shoulder. 

“You’re pulling my hair-” she grumbles, and he doesn’t move as she pulls some of the pink lipstick-stained strands from beneath his cheek. She huffs and slides further down the seat. Both of them sit in silence until they stop in front of the apartment, where he unbuckles her and lugs her bag out of the door. She follows close behind, her heels clicking on the concrete. 

“Your ass in those pants.” Katya pokes him in the butt as he climbs the stairs in front of her. “I am a big fan, mawma. A big fucking fan. Lemme into those pants, lemme fuck you.”

Trixie sighs, regains his balance and hoists her bag a little higher up on his shoulder. 

“The new neighbors should be spared from this, I’ve gotta say,” he says. She scoffs behind him, jumps up the final two stairs and grips his shoulder. Her nails are glued on tight, apparently barring the one that popped off against his ass, and they dig deep into his skin through his shirt. 

“Don’t be a bitch. Ah!” She shrieks as he drops the bag in the hallway, shoves her up against the cold wall, presses his forehead against her neck. He kisses her there, licks over her sweaty foundation and light stubble, scrapes his teeth to pick up some of the sticky makeup behind them. She groans, pushes him off, drops to the ground to dig around in her bag for the key. He watches her with delight, loves seeing her crouched on the floor being responsible in a pretty outfit. 

The new apartment smells like new apartment and cheap scented candles. It hasn’t existed long enough to smell of cigarettes, but she throws two sweaty packs from her bra onto the cluttered kitchen table and he knows it will soon enough. 

She has a queen-sized bed, bought it new, called him at four am in England to ask if he would like a firmer or squishier mattress. He had told her to buy whatever she damn pleased, only realizing the implications once he’d woken up again the next morning. 

She has a jar of weed on her kitchen counter, and she disappears into the bathroom as he stands useless with a hip resting against the refrigerator. He pours himself a glass of water, glances in the near-empty fridge and surveys the mostly bare living room. He bets that in the morning she’ll insist that he help her unpack, and he finds that he doesn’t mind at all. He likes the idea, being stuck up inside with her for hours on end, asking where she wants everything. 

She loves to boss him around, and he can’t hate it, no matter how many times he tells himself he should. 

There’s a slam from the bathroom, a muffled curse, and then she’s back out with her combat boots in hand. Her black and white jumpsuit is falling across her now-naked body, slipping down one shoulder to bare a breast. His eyes widen, his cheeks redden down to his stomach. She’s grinning at him, does a tiny twirl as she comes up to him from setting her shoes down near the front door. 

He can see her dick right through the thin material, and his hand goes directly to it as she comes up into his personal space. It seems like there’s an echo from how empty and new the place is, and her tiny, breathy laugh surrounds his ears on all sides. Her dick is hot in his hand, and she grows as he runs his fingers over her, her laughter continues as he pulls her closer and closer. 

“I have a fun idea,” she says as she pulls back, escapes from his grip. “Come here.”

She turns and the fabric floats around her, hangs in the air dramatically behind her. Her back ripples and flexes beneath it, and her little ass bounces as she nearly skips to her bedroom. 

“Come here!” She yells louder. He blinks, remembers that he needs to be walking, but only once she’s disappeared behind the wall. “Hurry! You fucking boring bitch.”

He takes a moment to stop in the doorway to her room- because her room is fully finished, her bed is tall and comfortable-looking, with blue sheets and five pillows. He knows that she probably throws all of them off the bed but one when she actually falls asleep at night. It’s the principle of the thing, and that he suspects that they’re there for him. She laughs at him for using as many pillows as possible. 

She has a bookshelf across from her bed, and it’s filled with all sorts of shit. Knick-knacks, fan gifts, and real books. He wants to peruse it, crack open some shitty poetry and have her explain it to him. 

She’s facing away from him, a big knot in the back of her hair. One of her feet is tapping and he realizes that she’s bent over her laptop and a speaker, humming and typing in intervals. 

He walks up beside her, unbuttoning his flannel as she wiggles a little, mouth hanging open as she stares at the screen. Her paint is nearly perfect, despite the heat of the venue and the early morning hour, and he feels a rush of heady pride at her womanhood. She seems to do it out of sheer uncaring nerve. It drives him nuts. 

She turns to him suddenly, blinks so that her lashes flap dramatically. 

“What are you doing? Get on the bed,” she says scathingly. He raises his eyebrows, pats her ass gently as he turns to do her bidding. She gasps through her nose, and he laughs as he scratches his chest, sits on the end of the bed in his jeans, watches her in the corner of the room. 

The mood lighting she’s set up is impressive. He imagines her at an antique shop picking out the dark lampshade that sits proudly on the bedside table. 

“I’m finding a soundtrack, you just sit there and wait. Be a good gay boy,” she says. He just keeps staring at her ass in the wacky fabric, the outline of her thighs, her one bare, smooth shoulder. “Oh mawma… This is perfect. I made this playlist-”

She presses play on Erykah Badu, and he’s suspicious that she’s more or less all the playlist will consist of. She turns slowly to face him with her red lips spread up in a silly grin. He laughs out loud, can’t stop his joy from bubbling up inside him, spilling over so that his eyes squint and his vision blurs. She looks even more thrilled at it, crosses over to him and lands on his lap before he can even register it. 

Her hands are bracing on his naked shoulders as she straddles his waist, lifting her chest to his face, wiggles her ass a little until his hands grip it. She loves to move a body part excitedly until it’s touched, loves to beg him without words. She radiates heat against him, kisses his head as he brings his lips to her chest. 

The moment his lips touch her, she presses her dick against his stomach, hard between his skin and her jumpsuit. She’s still sweaty, despite having shedded most of her clothing, and his lips slide across greasy foundation and graze against the plastic harness holding her breasts that press against his neck. 

She hums along to the song, keeps moving her hips from side-to-side so that she rubs against his stomach and so that her tits jiggle against his cheeks. He grips both of them quickly, squeezes and she groans in excitement as he does, scrapes up his back with her long nails. 

“Fuck, ouch,” he grunts, and she laughs loudly above his head. Her hands move to curl her fingers around his ears gently, nails just lightly scraping his skull behind them so he shivers. She whines a little as he does, the vibration of his stomach making her harder, encouraging her to thrust against him. 

Her entire body is rolling along with the music, and her hips jerk a little with the beat, up against his stomach. Every time she touches his stomach, without fail, he remembers her first fucking him, soon after his post-Drag Race weight gain, in a hotel room in Los Angeles, gripping onto him everywhere she could and groaning loudly into his ears about how thick he was. He almost misses it, and is nearly grateful for never being able to lose the final bit of pudge that’s left on him.

Her dick slides past the slit in the leg of her flowing pants, and she gasps as their bare skin touches, as the thin wet fabric of the pant leg slides cold against her smooth thigh and her dick drips into his stomach.

He wonders vaguely about the neighbors, how they’ll live with Katya next door. She’s always banging pots and pans at six am, wide awake and twisting her entire body up in the living room, smoking out on the balcony. He feels a twinge of jealousy, until Katya’s hand is coming down to pinch one of his nipples tight between her long nails.

His groan builds as she continues to hold on, breathes a laugh against his scalp. 

“Stop it, Katya, oh my god,” he breathes against the sticky plastic, the squishy breast. She laughs delightedly, releases his throbbing nipple and cups the back of his head with both hands, kisses both of his cheeks as her ass falls back down to rest on his thighs. 

He kisses her on the mouth, her red lips smeared to the right and bumpy with stubble and thick foundation. Her tongue curls against his teeth immediately and she climbs up, digs her sharp knees into his thighs so that he gasps and slaps her ass gently. She squeals and wiggles under his hand, and his dick twitches as her hand runs down his chest, closer and closer, nearly touching the waistband of his jeans but jumping off of him instead, taking both of his hands in hers. 

Her hands are always surprisingly cold, and now is no exception. Her thin fingers grip his and one of her thick veins squishes under his thumb. She drops his hands so that they fall with a pathetic thump on his thighs. He sits dumbly as she pumps her dick twice, unbuckles the black belt and scrapes up and down her stomach. Every roll of her shoulders hits the beat of the music, her hair is tangled right in front of her eyes and she blows upwards, so that the strands fly into the air and land on the top of her head. 

Her dick is sticking out of the slit in the fabric comically, red and dripping, bobbing as she places one foot in front of her and grips her breasts, squeezes them and sighs. He knows that the plastic is sticking to her tits underneath, her tiny tits that have been growing with every trip to the gym, to her delight. He knows that it must be uncomfortable, that it must be putting her on edge even more. They squeak with her sweat, and he pops the button of his pants. 

The dim light accentuates her paint perfectly, and she steps back to allow for him to slip his pants and underwear off without touching him, keeping herself just out of his personal space. His fingers itch. 

“No touchin’,” she whispers, as she stares his cock down. Her accent is out full-force, Bostonian to a fault, so similar to how her mother speaks. He strokes himself slowly, teasingly, how she likes him to when he’s watching. She bends her arms behind her head, her chest heaving as her hips continue to sway back and forth, and she shimmys the shoulders off, slips out of the outfit and pads over to him completely naked. 

Her tits aren’t shining fake in the lamplight anymore, from the distance he’s at they look completely real but for the transparent straps digging into her collarbone. He groans, squeezes his dick as she squishes his hips with her fingers. Her breasts squish against his chest as she kisses him hot and open, pushes him down onto the bed so that his calves are hanging off of the bed limply. Her knees squish the mattress and his ass lowers with it, her dick bumps against his and they both moan into each other’s open mouths. 

“Trixie. I’m going to fuck you now, right now, climb up.” He grunts, props himself up on his elbows as she crawls off of him, twists her waist to lay on her side, waiting. Her mascara has clumped at the inner corner of her eye, and his fingers reach for it the moment he sees it. Her eyes close with fluttering lashes, and he gently slips the black gunk out of her eyes with a thumb. Her little smile grows as she realizes what he’s doing, and her eyes open again when he kisses her quickly. 

The music is quieter, almost like she timed it perfectly, practiced in front of a mirror. He wouldn’t put it past her, is sure of it. He gathers her up in his arms for a minute, hands hard on her back and her breasts sticking to his chest, before she grumbles into his neck and releases her arm from where it’s wrapped around him to reach for the bedside table. 

Her fingers are at his asshole before he even realizes that she’s spreading his legs, her red tongue bit between her teeth in concentration as she gently rolls her fingertips across him, taps his balls with her other hand and kisses the side of his dick jokingly. He laughs, but it comes from deep inside of him, choked out, which only makes her laugh harder, crumple a little atop him and dig her nose into his hip. 

“Katya. Please, come on.” She won’t put her fingers inside of him with her nails on, but he’s five steps ahead of her for once, having in a disgusting fashion prepared himself in the backstage restroom at the show, feeling much too sober but also unwilling to wait later on. He brings his fingers down to meet hers, slides two inside easily so that she grins up at him, presses a big, red kiss to his stomach. 

“Ooh,” she hums as he continues to rather hastily stretch himself. Her fingers come up to his chest where his sweat is gathering and mess around in it, wipe it up to bring her fingers immediately to her mouth, tongue curling around nails and big knuckles. 

He whines instead of verbally informing her that he’s ready, somewhere in his occupied past few minutes he didn’t notice her slipping on a condom, but she’s coming up the bed, positioning herself to rub against him, between his ass cheeks and the bed sheet, as she drips lube on her fingers.

He looks up at her, all tan skin and muscle, her chest hair just barely growing back in carelessly, her white blonde waves falling in her face and her eyes down his stomach to his dick, back to make contact with his, staring bright blue into him. The veins in her upper arms are bulging, and he reaches up to wipe her forehead where her bangs are parting of sweat. 

“Pretty…” he mumbles, and then she’s pressing inside him slowly.

It always feels overwhelming, her dick slowly entering him hot and big, and his shoulders twitch as she fills him completely with two pushes, agonizingly slow. She’s grinning, her hair is getting in his eyes so he tucks it behind her ears. 

He watches her blush, her tongue comes out from between her teeth and her face drops to kiss him on both cheeks as she starts to thrust into him, angling upwards immediately and knocking the wind right out of him. 

She fucks him slowly, her elbows on the mattress, and then she lifts his hips and kneels, fucks him the tiniest bit faster, and she leans forward with her mouth hanging wide open. Her breasts bounce with each thrust, smack his chin and then jiggle between his fingers. Her eyes roll shut as he squeezes around her; her increasing speed is sending him quicker to the edge and she forces her eyes open to watch his hands gripping her tits. 

“Katya, fuck, your tits are so big. God,” he grits his teeth and she whimpers, her hips stutter and she falls forward a little. He lifts his head to kiss her cheek. “Let me put my face in them.”

A loud groan is ripped out of her and he can see how she talks herself down from an immediate orgasm to bend him, grip his cheeks and stuff his face against her chest. She squeezes her breasts together to suffocate him, cries out as one of his hands grips her ass to push her further inside of him.

“Baby,” he mumbles into her chest. She falls onto him as she comes, her strong core collapsing, and she’s so light on top of him that her weight sends him over the edge, holding her face in his hands and kissing her, squeezing his eyes shut. 

He falls asleep on her soft, natural breasts, her heartbeat lulling him into oblivion. Her hair lies at the end of the bed, and she snores with her palms resting flat on his back, rising and falling with his breaths.


End file.
